


displaced

by impravidus



Series: our lives in flux [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Assassin Tim Drake, Banter, Brotherly Bonding, Brothers, Bruce Wayne is Not Batman, Damian Wayne Has a Heart, Damian Wayne is Not Robin, Damian Wayne is Robin, Dimension Travel, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, English Student Jason Todd, Fluff, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, Ice Cream, Identity Porn, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Jason Todd is Not Red Hood, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Kidnapping, Mob Boss Dick Grayson, Multiverse, Parallel Universes, Role Reversal, Secret Identity, The League of Assassins (DCU), Theatre Kid Damian Wayne
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-24 01:22:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30064515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impravidus/pseuds/impravidus
Summary: “Meep!” escapes Damian’s lips. “U-uh, listen sirs, I really don’t know what’s going on here but—” three more of the scary thugs (is that derogatory? should he not say that?) point their guns at Damian. “And those are guns. Yup those are lots and lots of guns. Oh my God. I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die and I’m not going to get to be the first Asian Hans in Frozen Jr. Well, actually, I don’t know if I’d be the first Asian Hanseverbecause I’m sure there’ve been productions in heavily Asian populated areas, and I mean, I’m mixed, I’m not evenfullyAsian, but I—” They all cocked their guns. “Yup, I’m shutting up now.”"Yeah, this ain't Robin."
Relationships: Batfamily Members & Damian Wayne, Batfamily Members & Tim Drake, Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne
Series: our lives in flux [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2211840
Comments: 74
Kudos: 174
Collections: March Connect The Lines WC/B Event





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> updates every monday and friday!

**Damian al Ghul Wayne, Ibn al Xu'ffasch**

Damian rises with an unfamiliar fogginess of lethargy. He blinks slowly, his vision still slightly blurred from his slumber.

Slumber? When did he go to sleep? Surely he didn’t lose consciousness on patrol.

Memories suddenly come rushing to him.

He was shot!

He shoots up from where he lay which just induces vertigo. He presses a palm to his temple as he tries to force clarity and alertness upon his uncharacteristically tired body. 

_ Think back. Assess. _

He was on patrol against Father’s word. His benching was unjust and his absence would be detrimental for the crime in Gotham.

So he went out anyway. 

And he was… shot?

He holds back a small groan as he looks around.

His back goes straight as he stills.

This is not his room.

The art on the walls is in his style, but they aren’t pieces he’s ever done. Photos of him, Father, and Todd litter the desk against the wall along with a mess of papers. There is a sweatshirt hanging off of the chair of the desk that looks to be his size but nothing he would ever wear. The bed is cushy and covered in a bright bedspread, unlike his neutral comforter. In fact, everything about this room can be categorized as bright, colorful, and cluttered. 

Everything he himself is not.

He looks down at himself and sees that he’s wearing thin pajama pants and a soft cotton t-shirt. The socks he wears are mismatched: one bright blue with dolphins on it and the other grey with an astronomical pattern of planets and stars. 

He does not own these clothes.

Where is he?

He first considers body swapping. When he looks down at the hands, they are less scarred and calloused and definitely lacking in muscular definition. They are the hands of a child. 

He runs his fingers through his hair and sees that the hair on his head is longer, shaggy and styled to cover his forehead with bangs. His smooth, slightly chubby fingers feel foreign.

Where exactly is he?  _ Who _ is he?

Damian tip toes out of this strange room and is startled as he enters the hall of the manor. 

He looks back into the unfamiliar room and back into the hall.

Though it is unlikely that this connects to a doorway as some sort of portal, he does not dismiss this as an option.

He begins to head to the grandfather clock when he runs into Todd.

“Oh, hey little dude!” Todd greets with a bright grin. “Can’t believe you’re up already. Would’ve thought you’d sleep ‘til noon after our movie marathon last night.”

Damian recoils back as Todd tries to ruffle his hair. He bares his teeth. “Do not touch me with your filthy hands, heathen.”

“Someone’s getting into D&D podcasts again, huh?” Todd laughs, bright and bubbly. 

“You are… acting unlike yourself,” Damian says slowly.

“I don’t think I am?” Todd says with a crooked smile and furrowed brow. “Hey! Before I forget, Alfred made cinnamon rolls and they are to  _ die  _ for. I saved you one, don’t worry, but I can’t promise Dad will.”

“I have  _ some _ restraint.” Father approaches them, a beaming smile on his face that is completely startling to see. “Don’t worry, bud. There’s plenty saved for you. But only  _ one.  _ I can’t have you having another sugar high and painting a mural on your walls again.”

“Hey! I kinda like that one,” Todd says jovially. “The splatters were avant garde.”

Damian narrows his eyes. “Why are you behaving so anomalously?”

“I see somebody’s been getting into Jason’s SAT prep books again,” Father says, lips turned up in amusement. He pats Damian on the head. “Good word. I’ll have to use that one.”

Damian gawks at him. “Father, what…”

“Yikes, father?” Father replies with a laugh. “What’d I do this time?”

“I—” Damian cuts himself off. For the first time, he really scrutinizes the two. Todd is dressed in an oversized hoodie and well-worn jeans. His hair lacks the distinct white streak and his eyes are a clear blue, not green tint present at all. Father is in a tasteful and tailored charcoal suit with a bright tie, adorned with a pattern of cartoon tacos. 

These are not the Jason Todd and Bruce Wayne that he knows.

“Robin reporting a code delta tango bravo sierra,” Damian says firmly.

Bruce looks at him with a raised eyebrow. “DTBS, huh? What’s that one stand for?”

“You don’t know?” Damian questions, stomach dropping.

Bruce tilts his head, confused but still smiling. “Should I?”

“No. I suppose not,” Damian murmurs. “Where is Drake?”

“Drake?” Bruce repeats as if the word means nothing.

“Timothy? Tim?” Damian adds.

“Uh, not sure who you’re talking about, bud,” Bruce says.

“Right,” Damian says slowly. Realizing that these alternates truly know nothing, he plasters on what he hopes to be a convincing smile. “Did you say that Pen— Alfred made cinnamon rolls?”

“Should still be warm if you hurry to the kitchen,” Jason says.

“I better hurry then,” Damian says, lightening his voice to match their inflection.

“Only one!” Bruce calls after him while he hurries to the stairs.

Damian can’t get away fast enough. 

DTBS. Dimension travel. Body swap.

He needs to find Drake, and he needs to find him fast.

**Damian Thomas Wayne**

At first he thinks it’s a dream because what else could it be? It can’t be anything else. Right?

The last thing he remembers, he was curled up in bed, going to sleep way too late after getting caught up in a good fic on AO3. Now he’s standing in a spooky, sketchy warehouse with a really big and scary bad guy pointing a gun at him.

“Nothing happened!” the scary bad guy with the gun growls.

“Meep!” escapes Damian’s lips.

His accomplice (lackey? minion? Damian doesn’t know enough about bad guy hierarchies to know what he’d be considered) raises an interested eyebrow. “Perhaps something did.”

“U-uh, listen sirs, I really don’t know what’s going on here but—” three more of the scary thugs (is that derogatory? should he not say that?) point their guns at Damian. “And those are guns. Yup those are lots and lots of guns. Oh my God. I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die and I’m not going to get to be the first Asian Hans in  _ Frozen Jr. _ Well, actually, I don’t know if I’d be the first Asian Hans  _ ever _ because I’m sure there’ve been productions in heavily Asian populated areas, and I mean, I’m mixed, I’m not even  _ fully _ Asian, but I—” They all cocked their guns. “Yup, I’m shutting up now.”

“Yeah, this ain’t Robin,” Scary Bad Guy with a Gun #2 says.

“Yes! Exactly. I’m not Robin, so if you could just—” Before he can continue, a blur of black and red emerges from the shadows, taking out the assailants one by one.

Gunfire erupts and Damian flinches at the booming noise. Damian is frozen in place, eyes wide as he watches this unnamed hero take out all the bad guys.

The way he fights is with an ease of someone who obviously knows what he’s doing. The way he moves is languid, melodic and loose like a well choreographed dance. Damian is almost so captivated by the fight that he nearly forgets that he is in life threatening danger.

The fight goes extremely fast or maybe Damian is just blacking out from an overdose of adrenaline. All he knows is that now all the bad guys are down and he’s standing there gaping like a fish at the hero who is barely fatigued from the fight.

The hero looks Damian up and down, as if he’s sizing him up. He shakes his head.

There is one scary bad guy left conscious, cowering with a broken arm.

“Please, man, don’t kill me,” he pleads.

“Your life is of no worth to me,” the hero (?) says, his voice thick with an unfamiliar accent. He punches the man in the face and disappears back into the shadows before Damian can even thank him.

“Woah,” Damian says quietly. “That was… crazy.”

“Robin. Report,” he hears through the earpiece in his ear. Was that his dad? “Robin. Report.  _ Now.”  _ Shit. He sounds super mad.

Damian fumbles to figure out how to turn on the communicator but manages to find it, a little beep sounding. “Uh, hello?”

“Report to the cave immediately,” his dad growls.

“Uh,” Damian says slowly, “what?” He takes a shaky breath. “Look, Dad, I have literally  _ no  _ idea what’s going on. One second I’m in bed,  _ totally going to sleep at a reasonable time, _ and then I’m, I’m, I’m standing in a gross warehouse being held at gunpoint? Oh my God. I was just held at gunpoint. I could’ve _ died.  _ I can’t die! I’m too young. The closest thing I’ve had to a life or death experience was almost falling off the bridge in  _ Into the Woods _ and that was just like a six foot drop. Not  _ guns  _ pointed _ at my face. _ Oh my God. Dad. What is going on?”

There is a long pause. “I’m coming to get you. Don’t move.” And with that, the communicator beeps again.

“Dad?  _ Dad?” _ Damian gasps, breath shuddering. He sits on the floor, pulling his knees to his chest while he wraps his arms around them. It’s only then he’s realizing he’s in some strange costume. “What is going  _ on?” _ Damian repeats to himself. 

It takes his dad, like, an eternity to get him, but the sound of the rickety metal doors echoes in the warehouse and there he is.

In a  _ weird leather furry suit? _

“Uh, Dad? Please tell me I didn’t call you when you were doing weird kinky sex stuff with Selina.” He freezes. “Oh God. Please forget I ever said that. I’m mortified. It’s the shock talking. Please don’t ground me forever.”

“Come on. Let’s get to the car. Then we’ll talk,” he says, voice a little rougher than he’s used to.

Yeah, he really doesn’t want to think about  _ why _ that is.

The car he brings him to is a car he’s never seen before, but then again, Damian doesn’t really care about cars. When asked about his dream car, he said it would have a sunroof, seat warmers, and cup holders to which Jason told him that most cars, if not all, have cup holders.

This car has cup holders too. 

“I swear, I didn’t sneak out. I would never do that.” At the lack of response, he pushes on. “Okay, I know I snuck out that one time to go to the _ Shrek _ cast party, but that was like  _ forever _ ago, and I definitely wouldn’t sneak out to some sketchy warehouse in,” he pauses. “Where  _ am _ I?” His eyes soften with desperation. “Dad. What is happening?”

“I need to ask you some questions,” he says, voice tight.

“Anything,” Damian says quickly. “But I can’t promise I have any answers.”

“What does ‘Robin’ mean to you?”

Damian… doesn’t have an answer. “Uh, I’ve heard it a couple times tonight but I don’t know why. It’s… it’s a bird? Right?”

“Infinity Island?” 

“The crappiest name for an island on Animal Crossing?” Damian tries to joke, confused.

“Talia al Ghul?”

Damian stares at him. “Yeah, I got nothing.”

The pensive, slightly constipated look on his dad’s face deepens.

“But you… you’re Damian Wayne?”

Damian’s brows scrunch together. “Uh… yeah? Damian Thomas Wayne? Your youngest and favorite son?”

“Have you recently experienced or encountered anything strange?”

Damian scoffs in disbelief. “Uh, besides waking up in the middle of a  _ random warehouse _ with a bunch of scary bad guys  _ pointing guns at me _ while I’m wearing a weird costume and saved by some hero I’ve never seen before? No, Dad. I haven’t.”

They sit in an uncomfortable tense silence and Damian is starting to think he’s about to get his phone taken away for a month.

Instead his dad asks him the last thing he’s expecting.

“Are you familiar with the multiverse?”

Damian laughs because how else is he supposed to respond? 

When his dad doesn’t laugh too, Damian freezes. 

“You can’t be serious,” Damian says. His father just gives him a flat look. “That… that’s not a  _ thing! _ The multiverse doesn’t just exist! People can’t just  _ travel between dimensions. _ I mean, that’s the kind of stuff that Jason reads in his crappy sci-fi novels, not, not, not  _ real life!” _

“There is so much undisclosed to civilians—”

“Civilians?  _ We’re _ civilians! What are you _ talking _ about?”

“I think that the most likely explanation to what has happened to you tonight is dimensional travel.”

Those words coming out of his dad’s mouth so seriously is… it’s unbelievable.

“How can you even say that?” Damian exclaims.

“Because you aren’t my Damian.”

A pang of hurt blooms in his chest. “Dad—”

“Does anything else make any more sense?” He interjects.

“I— it—” And he thinks. He thinks really hard and as ridiculous as it may seem, it makes more sense than sudden teleportation and… and whatever is going on with his dad right now.

Is this even his dad?

His not-dad sighs. “I understand that this is overwhelming for you…”

“Overwhelming?” He chuckles, slightly hysterical. “Yeah.  _ Yeah.  _ You could say I’m overwhelmed. You could definitely say that. Oh my God. Did I just disappear from my universe? Dad’s gonna freak. O-or is your Damian in my body right now? Who knows what he could be doing right now? I-I mean, I know nothing about your Damian. What if he was raised by assassins or something?” Not-Dad gives him a complicated look. “Oh my God.  _ He was raised by assassins?!” _

“It’s not nearly as bad as you’re making it sound.”

“Is he gonna assassinate my family?!”

“I can assure you he won’t—”

“Oh my  _ God,  _ why do you  _ talk _ like that?”

Not-Dad places his hands on his shoulders and turns him to face him. “What do you need?”

“What do I  _ need? _ I  _ need _ to go back to my universe. Which is a sentence I never expected I’d ever say ever. Oh my God. I’m in another universe.”

“We will figure it out,” he says in a soothing tone that immediately calms his nerves. “For now, let’s get back to the manor. Get some rest.”

“Yeah,” Damian says, staring out the window with a pounding heart, “I don’t think I’ll be doing any resting tonight.”


	2. brand new me (i’m not who i was before)

**Tim “Red Robin” Drake-Wayne**

Tim comes to in the familiar warm grass of Dick’s favorite hidey hole in the gardens.

_ How did he get here? _

Now, Tim was already running on two hours of sleep from Tuesday morning which  _ may _ have been three days ago. He’s not sure. Time is a construct.

So, he cannot be blamed for his disorientation. Okay. Yeah he can. But he’ll still make excuses.

Coffee! He needs coffee.

Blearily, he trudges through the back entrance and heads to the kitchen.

His stomach growls which he scowls back at it for. “I will provide you with sustenance soon,” he mumbles.

His hand swipes through air and he has to crack his eye open.

“Alfred moved the coffee pot,” Tim mutters. With a slow plod, he starts the coffee machine, the good feeling chemicals in his brain shooting off at the sound of the familiar sound. 

He goes to the cabinet and frowns.

His favorite mug isn’t there.  _ Where is it? _

He takes a dangerous chance and grabs a random mug, hoping it isn’t one of Damian’s and pours himself some coffee.

He then proceeds to chug three mugs of black, boiling hot coffee in immediate succession of each other. 

Blinking to a manageable lucidity, Tim shuffles to the fridge and hums in delight when he sees leftover baked ziti. God, he loves cold pasta.

He sips on his third mug of coffee while he eats the ziti out of the container with a spoon (which really doesn’t go together, but he doesn’t really care) and hums in delight, his hunger being satiated.

Alfred enters and freezes at the door.

“Sup?” Tim says, throwing him a peace sign before going in for another spoonful.

Alfred continues to stare.

Tim sighs. “I know I’m supposed to get an actual plate, but c’mon, there’s barely anything left in here.”

“Who are you?”

Tim rolls his eyes. “Ha ha. Very funny. I get it, Alfred. I’m not supposed to come into the manor in costume, but in my defense, I was very hungry and I was already above ground.”

“How did you get in here?” Alfred demands, voice twinged in a slight panic.

“Uh, the door? Duh?” He chews and swallows before he continues. “Didn’t come through the clock if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I don’t know how you got on these grounds, but I am going to have to ask you to leave.”

Tim stills, fork midway to his mouth. “What?”

“I do not know how you got in here, but if you do not vacate the premises immediately, I will have to call the authorities.”

“Alfred, c’mon. It’s me. Tim? Timothy Drake-Wayne?”

“I do not know anyone of that name. Now if you won’t leave on your own accords—”

“No! I… I’m going. I… uh,” Tim sets the tupperware on the table along and pours his coffee into the sink. “I… sorry for inconveniencing you, uh, sir.” And with that, Tim books it out of there.

Though he won’t admit it later, his first suspicion is some sort of memory altercation. 

Tim reluctantly leaves the Wayne Manor premises and looks longingly over his shoulder.

He goes to push his hair out of his face when he catches sight of his sleeve.

Dark green, leather, and lined with knives.

It’s only now, aggressively awake, does he realize the weight on his back isn’t his bo staff.

With cautious tentativity, he reaches back and pulls out… a sword?

He rolls it in his hands and inspects the carvings. Carvings that he’s seen imbedded into the swords that Damian wields.

“Holy Dimension Hopping, Batman!”

**Timothy “Mutadarib” Drake**

Timothy flees the scene, becoming one with the shadows and disappearing into the night.

He stalks the unfamiliar Gotham City. 

The first thing he does is remove the communicator lodged inside of his ear. He does not know how it got there and he does not know he got here.

He does not like not knowing things. 

He investigates the area he has found himself in. 

It’s a few miles out from where he was before. He is also clothed completely differently than he had been before, something completely unsanctioned from League standards.

He strides to the glass window of a small cafe illuminated by lamplight.

That is his face. Hidden behind some sort of mask.

He frowns at his body. It is leaner than it had just been, the muscle lacking depth and density where it usually resides.

Travel through the multiverse.

It is a concept mentioned in passing, something so far from the realms of logical concern.

He had never thought he’d be one subject experiencing it firsthand.

He knows what he must do. He must return to the nearest League building planted on the outskirts of the city.

He makes it there in record time, not catching any unwanted attention. However, when he approaches the building, he finds that it has been long abandoned. Or rather, never renovated.

He huffs in frustration. He then quickly reigns in his frustration. Emotions cloud the mind. They are distractions. They are weaknesses.

He realizes now that he needs to gather intel about his counterpart. He searches his person for any sort of identification or something to lead him to his permanent residence. 

Unfortunately, he finds nothing.

He easily pickpockets a cellular device from a stranger that luckily has recent fingerprints of the code. Deducting the order by the shape of the smudges, he gets into the phone with little effort.

It takes some virtual digging but he finds the current home of “Timothy Drake-Wayne.”

He scoffs. Unbelievable. In this bizarro world, he is somehow a relative to the bastard Demon Head’s grandson. 

Timothy feels his jaw click as it clenches. This world mocks him. When he puts on the facade of Timothy Drake-Wayne, he will have to willingly interact with that wretched urchin with a plastered smile.

He dreads it. 

Capturing the child is simple. But playing house? He did not sign up for that.

He feels out of control. He hates not having control.

He enters Timothy Drake-Wayne’s apartment through the roof access and turns up his nose at the garbage that litters it. 

A slob. A simpleton. Clearly unaffiliated with the League though not unfamiliar with vigilantism judging by his costume. He imagines he must be inferior to Timothy — Mutadarib, the Demon Head’s apprentice — when engaging in combat. He will have to keep that in mind. Perhaps he’ll find videos of him fighting, learn the way he fights so he will not raise suspicion.

A cellular device buzzes on the glass table in front of the couch. He has already long discarded the cellular device he had stolen. He does not care if the owner will not find it again. She is not of his concern.

He tiptoes to the buzzing cellular device. 

Text messages, none so urgent that they require his immediate response.

He goes to locate Timothy Drake-Wayne’s laptop. 

It is well hidden, but not impossible to find, especially not Timothy. 

The background of the screen is a collage of photos with a bright red box reading “tim!!!! remember to take your meds!!!” 

Timothy frowns. 

He searches the apartment and locates his medication. He reads the label carefully and sees that he doesn’t need to take it until the morning. 

He stores this information in the back of his mind. He will not forget. He doesn’t forget anything.

He returns to the laptop and sees that it is protected by heavy firewalls. It is easy to crack. Almost fun. Clearly, his counterpart is well-versed in technology and is competent in that aspect.

What he finds at first is almost boring. 

It appears to be a computer containing a businessman’s documents as well as a plethora of folders filled with photos. 

However, Timothy knows better. 

He gets through Timothy — or rather Tim — Drake-Wayne’s defenses and finds what he’s looking for.

Information.

Oh, Tim Drake-Wayne. It’s going to be fun becoming you.


	3. am i the only one pretending?

**Damian al Ghul Wayne, Ibn al Xu'ffasch**

When Damian makes it down to the kitchen, Pennyworth is standing shellshocked, washing out a tomato stained tupperware.

“Good morning,” Damian says in what he hopes to be somewhat like this universe’s Damian.

Pennyworth jumps. “Good morning, Master Damian. Did you get a good rest?”

Damian nods. “I did. I feel extremely rejuvenated.”

Pennyworth gives him an odd look. “That’s very good.” He stares at the mug in the sink. “I’m guessing you came down for a cinnamon roll?”

“T— Jason said that they’re worthy of death,” Damian says.

Pennyworth’s eyebrows shoot up. “Pardon?”

“I-I mean, that they’re ‘to die for,’” Damian corrects.

“Well, I don’t wish death upon anyone, but I do hope they will live up to the praise.”

Damian bites down a terse remark. “Words are not nearly enough to capture the quality of your food.”

Pennyworth grins. “Well, coming from you, that is truly the highest of compliments.” He goes to the oven and pulls out the tray of cinnamon rolls, placing one on a plate with a pair of tongs. “Do eat with a fork.”

“Of course,” Damian replies. Damian cannot imagine touching the sticky mess of a thing with his bare fingers. Just the thought makes him recoil. 

Pennyworth hands him a small fork and knife. 

“It smells delicious,” Damian says, the compliment unnatural but genuine. A part of him, the part that was instilled into him from when he was young, admonishes him for showing such weaknesses. The other part that sounds suspiciously like Grayson is burning with praise.

“Thank you,” Pennyworth says.

Damian cuts a small piece and takes his time while he chews. It’s fluffy and sweet and so unlike the porridges that he is accustomed to for breakfast.

He wouldn’t say that he prefers it. It’s just different. 

“So, what are your plans for your first day of summer vacation?”

Damian freezes. “Well.”  _ Think back to what you observed in your alternate’s room and use deductive reasoning.  _ “I’ll have to make good use of my new paints.”

“I know you plan to use a tarp when doing so,” Pennyworth says, the statement is more of a command than a suggestion.

“Of course.”

Damian sits straight with cautious alert as he hears footsteps approach. “Uh uh. You are  _ not _ spending your first day of summer holed up in your room listening to podcasts and choking on paint fumes.  _ We _ are going to get ice cream.”

“Todd—”

“Nope. I’m not hearing it. We are spending quality brother bonding time and you will  _ like  _ it.”

This Jason Todd is very Richard Grayson like. What is odd, though, is there doesn’t seem to be a Richard Grayson. At least, not one that is a Wayne.

“Get real people clothes on and meet me in the foyer in fifteen minutes. If you’re not there, I will brush your teeth for you and I know you hate when I have to do that.”

“I will be down in ten,” Damian replies.

Jason grins cheekily. “Good.”

**Damian Thomas Wayne**

Damian can’t help but sneak glances at the man who looks like his dad who wears weird fetish gear.

God, he does  _ not  _ want to ever think about that  _ ever. _ Brain bleach, please.

Everything about his not-dad is tense. The way he grips the steering wheel and the way his jaw is clenched and the way that vein in his neck keeps popping out.

“Are you alright?” Damian asks. 

He realizes this probably isn’t his place. He isn’t this Bruce Wayne’s son and he’s probably distraught over the loss, planning every and any way to get him back.

Or maybe he isn’t. Damian doesn’t really know this Bruce Wayne.

His Damian  _ is _ an assassin. Maybe he’s a huge jerkface.

Oh God. That Damian is in his body right now.

And now he’s spiraling again. Great.

Damian does that a lot— spiral. Though his father will never admit it, he is a helicopter parent and has programmed into his brain the simple fact of life which is that there is danger everywhere, especially when you’re rich and living in Gotham. It doesn’t help that he’s a naturally dramatic person. It’s great when he’s on the stage, performing soliloquies under the spotlight. Not so much when he takes every unfamiliar situation and twists it into the worst case scenario.

And oh boy, does he have some worst case scenarios.

It’s pretty obvious that this Bruce Wayne is not his father. He lacks his bright grin and bubbly laugh, and though he can’t see his eyes from behind his mask, he’s getting that he doesn’t have the crinkles that his father does from all the time he spends smiling. 

Damian is very convinced that this Bruce Wayne is some sort of fighter. Crime fighter? Hero fighter? He’s not sure, but by the looks of assassin Damian’s outfit, he’s guessing that Damian’s his sidekick.

But then, why wasn’t Other Bruce out with him?

“Because he wasn’t supposed to be out tonight,” Other Bruce replies.

Oh, Barbara Shitsand, did he say that out loud? 

“Yes, you did.” Other Bruce’s lips are curling up, just barely. “You have a very colorful vocabulary.”

Damian flushes. “Yeah. My dad says the same thing. Alfred would probably wash my mouth out with soap if he’s heard what I’ve said tonight.”

“That’s one thing that hasn’t changed between our dimensions.”

The car approaches the entrance to a cave and Damian is starting to think that he’s being kidnapped by a clone of his dad that has been lying to him to gain his trust and then harvest his organs.

“This car has to park down here. There’s a stairwell that leads up to the manor.”

The cave is lit by fluorescent light and there is an area that must act as a garage because there are motorcycles and cars all sitting there.

“I can’t imagine this being under my house,” Damian says.

“Maybe it’s not,” Other Bruce says. “I found it when I fell into the well as a child and repurposed it later.”

“That sounds… scary.”

“It was at the time. But it all worked out well.”

Other Bruce parks the car and gets out of the car, motioning for Damian to follow him.

He leads him through a crazy area with a  _ dinosaur  _ and a glass case filled with costumes and a  _ ginormous  _ computer.

“What is this place?” Damian asks, breathlessly.

“It’s the headquarters for me and my team.”

“Team,” Damian repeats. “Because you’re…”

“A vigilante,” Other Bruce finishes. “I can assure you, I work for the good side of the law.”

Damian relaxes a little more. “Oh. Good.”

“Follow me. I’m sure Alfred has his usual post patrol refreshments prepared.”

Damian trails behind Other Bruce and tries not to gawk at everything he passes.

His dad can’t possibly have this under their house, right? That’s crazy.

The manor looks eerily the same to the one he knows, except there’s little differences. New vases. Pictures of people he doesn’t recognize on the walls. 

“Master Bruce, how many times do I have to tell you not to come up while you’re in costume?”

Damian turns around and smiles at the familiar face.

“We’ve got a situation,” Other Bruce says. “Delta tango bravo sierra November tango.”

Alfred’s face goes stony. “I see. Well, I’m sure you can both freshen up and get into your nighttime attire before you get something to eat.”

Other Bruce looks at Damian with reluctance. 

“I will show the young sir to the washroom and a guest room. I can find some spare pajamas of Master Damian’s.”

It’s really weird hearing Alfred talk about him when it’s not really him.

“But—”

“I’m sure that any interrogation can be done when you are well rested,” Alfred says, voice obviously leaving no room for refute.

“Fine,” Other Bruce says, a familiar tone his dad takes with his Alfred when he’s being stubborn. “But—”

“There will be none of that, sir,” Alfred interjects.

“Right,” Other Bruce says with a frown.

Damian clears his throat. “Uh, is Jason in the manor or is he on campus? I don’t want to accidentally wake him up.” 

The two men go tense.

“What?” Damian asks, chuckling awkwardly.

“Jason doesn’t live at the manor,” Other Bruce says, voice heavy with a complicated tightness.

“Oh. Okay.” He looks at the many closed door. “I, uh, saw you have other kids. Do any of them live here?”

Other Bruce shakes his head. “No. Not at the moment.”

“Oh. Okay,” Damian repeats. “I still won’t sing that loud. I’m sure you’re… tired.”

He gives a smile that’s closer to a grimace. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

Alfred places a gentle hand to his shoulder. “This way.”

**Author's Note:**

> if you want to check out the chapter name playlist (and get a future look into the future chapter names), click [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1OpcNohy8VSDGOtRFWH2Fn?si=ej7mUjmYSq62drrxeueQmw)!
> 
> if you want to chat, my tumblr is [official-impravidus](https://official-impravidus.tumblr.com/)


End file.
